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I’ll have been in NZ for seven years. I don’t know why it’s important. But it is important that I leave exactly seven years after I arrive. There’s currently only one stamp in my passport.

I’ll happily admit: I’m running away.

I don’t know what from. I don’t know why. But fuck being here any longer. I love this stupid little country and I’m coming back to see even more of it, but I’m tired of it, tired of the way people live here, tired of the restrictions I feel I’m constantly living under. I’m tired of watching life pass me serenely by.

The thing is, I always tell people that changing your situation doesn’t change you. You can’t run from your problems, you can’t run from who you are. So part of me thinks that heading to Germany goes completely against what I believe – except, it doesn’t: I’ll happily carry my baggage with me.

Of course, I have and will have expectations of Germany – hot guys, cute girls, Porsches and Beemers fucking everywhere, all the things that matter in life – and there’s a strong possibility that too much dreaming leads to huge disappointments.

But that’s true for life. I blame it on movies and books and stories: you never see a scene that doesn’t matter. At no point during a movie will a boy walk past the house of a girl he likes and nothing happens. He will certainly not simply walk, lost in thoughts of said girl, and notice a few minutes later where he is.

And so we live with this stupid expectation that Everything Matters and that Something Will Happen.

And it fucking won’t.

Sitting around waiting for life to happen is only worthwhile in a movie or book.

So I can’t sit around waiting. ‘Cause nothing will happen. I’ll get stuck somewhere, content in the belief that things will magically get better or return to where they were, which is seldom better than right here.

No, I have to happen to life. I have to go and happen, I have to make my own stories. I have to make the changes I want to see.

Of course I could do that here. I could completely happen here. But I don’t want to. Nothing in me wants to stay, nothing holds me here; everything pulls me away. So I’m going to happen somewhere else.

Most people my age have settled. In a few years they’ll be married and kidded and bored and longing. But they’ll be safe. They’ll be comfortable. They’ll be happy and secure and content and dreamy. They’ll have things to work on, they’ll have work to do and a family to grow. They’ll have things to be proud of and people to love them always, unconditionally.

Not one aspect of that appeals to me. And I’m perfectly ok with that.

Because I could totally settle. I could find a lovely woman and settle into an analysis position and make my home here, make my mark right here so that when I die my memorial stone will say “BRB, gone to fetch my girl. See you kids soon.”

But so could anyone. And nothing makes me better than them for that role. There is nothing in me that makes me the sort of guy you’d marry and live forever with. Mostly, because I’ve never really wanted that.

Yes, I said I did. Yes, I love kids. But I feel that there has to be more to life. There has to be more to my life. I can’t simply raise some perfectly imperfect cultural mongrels and consider my life well lived. I just see no point in that.

What draws me is stories. What draws me is people. What draws me is love and sex and laughter and cars and drivers. Because I’d rather be broke in the passenger seat of a Porsche on the Nurburgring than wealthy in the driver seat of a Porsche on Tamaki Drive.

The first bit of porn I remember watching made me come in ten seconds.

The scene is etched into my memory. An – even by young-me’s standards – average woman, bent over the bonnet of a yellow Porsche Boxster,fucked by the hairiest man possible – who happened to have the world’s sexiest cock.

I think that might have been the first time I fell in love with Porsche.

It was probably also the first time I had an inkling I was bi.

I’ve been lucky: my sexual preference has only been mocked by two people: One a pretty Danish girl who, on hearing I want to get back into dancing, ice skating and cycling, declared “In all possible offensiveness, that is soooo gay” which made me laugh: part of the reason I like ice skating is…well. I’m sure YouTube will help you figure it out.

The only other person who has demonised my sexuality is me.

I spent my teenage years growing up in a boys-only boarding school, where my biggest fear was showering with attractive boys. Two boys caught practicing their addition (34+35 from what I hear) were talked about in hushed voices – often accompanied with words such as “disgusting” and “gross”.

I longed for a similar situation to befall me – preferably without being caught. As this proved elusive, I instead adopted the pulpit’s perspective. It was easy to lose myself in the biblical beliefs, berating myself for my lustful longings and sinful suggestions.

I was a little confused as to “why” it was wrong: the Bible was not clear on homosexuality. At no point did any worthy writer record god as saying “oh yeah. You should only have sex with people of the opposite sex, regardless of your desires – and you should control those too!”.

Nothing explained why me wanting cock was bad.

I didn’t stop strangling myself about it. I didn’t stop questioning. And I was so busy distracting myself with hating me for who I was, I completely missed other parts of me.

I completely missed the fact that I was more than sexual. I completely missed that, as much as I wanted to date a girl, I wanted to date a boy too. I was so busy branding half of myself as “horribly homo” that I failed to notice I was beautifully bi.

If you’re gay then you’re gayif you’re straight well that’s great! If you fall in between that’s the best way to be, you’ve got so many options every fish in the sea wants to kiss you.

It scares me, the thought of falling for a guy. But it thrills me too. I have no idea when it will happen. I know I want it more right now because of what I’m going through. Because I want someone to lean on. But that’s not really fair on a partner. I need to love myself first. But when someone comes along who flips my heart and stretches my jeans, who makes me laugh and makes me care, it’s nice to not care if it’s a guy or a girl – though it’d be awesome regardless if they have a Porsche.